


i don't know what that remote is for

by jilliancares



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Caught in the Act, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Together, Getting Together, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, M/M, Sex Toys, Smut, Vibrators, remote controlled vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilliancares/pseuds/jilliancares
Summary: Peter finally has a day to himself, and he decides to relax, maybe take out a couple of toys. But then Deadpool comes by and finds this remote on the counter andoh God the vibrator's still inside of him.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1953
Collections: A Labyrinth of Fics, Deadpool





	i don't know what that remote is for

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me in a dream and i have no self control good bye

It was supposed to be a relaxing day. You know, one of those things that Peter experiences so rarely that he isn’t entirely sure they actually exist.

To be fair, his day _does_ starts off great. Exactly the way he expected.

It’s that blessed, rare moment when there’s a lull in college schoolwork — that period of time right after midterms but before all the new, just as horrible projects and essays are piled onto you. And, even better, it’s right after Spider-Man defeated his most recent super-villain.

Things don’t line up this perfectly very often, okay? Because after Spider-Man takes down a super-villain, there’s a lull very similar to the one after midterms. As if all the criminals and up-and-coming villains (not yet supers, thank God) take a brief respite from their evil deeds as if realizing, _wow, holy shit, that’s what I’m up against._

And Peter is in _heaven_. Because for the first time in his memory, he has a day with _zero responsibilities_. No homework, no essays, no group projects. No villains wreaking havoc down the street. And because maybe — just maybe — Peter’s finally built up enough karma in his life to have something good happen to him, he _also_ doesn’t have work today.

He was supposed to, granted, but his boss called him at the last minute and revealed that they’d accidentally scheduled two people for the same shift. If it were any other day, Peter probably would’ve been pissed, because he needs the money. But today, it just seems like the cherry on top.

Peter Parker, possibly the busiest man in New York (not that many people would know it), has nothing to do today.

And it’s _great_. Or, it was, at least.

He slept in this morning. Something so novel that he actually sat bolt upright and searched frantically through his sheets, searching for his phone, before realizing he hadn’t set his alarm on purpose, for once.

After that, he’d gone ahead and made himself a nice breakfast. He had the time, so he’d fried up some eggs and microwaved up some bacon, because he was still poor enough that even when he did splurge on bacon, it wasn’t the kind that you made on a stove.

And then he’d taken a nice, long bath — a rarity, when he wasn’t doing so to soothe aching muscles and occasionally even broken bones. He’d caught up on several shows, done a load of laundry, and even tidied up his room while music was playing. And he hadn’t even abhorred every second of it!

Finally, since it’s a relaxing day — one in a million — he decides to, well. Take his time, with certain activities. Certain activities that usually occur in a rushed manner, like for two minutes in the shower before work. Or the occasional slower, drawn-out five minutes before bed, if he can spare the sleep. And the sheets.

Yeah, Peter Parker doesn’t get much time for himself. Which is why today, he’s pulling out all the stops. And a few toys.

Honest to God, Peter hasn’t gotten to use any of these in forever. He clicks a button on one of them and is amazed it even buzzes to life, because he can’t for the life of him remember the last time he charged it.

So Peter takes his time. He warms himself up with slow touches, wets first his fingers with lube and then the toy, and pops it inside of him. God, it’s been way, _way_ too long.

Which is why he decides to continue taking his time. Something he’ll regret later, he can assure you.

Because the toy is an egg-shaped vibrator, and it’s currently inside him. Peter pulls on a pair of sweatpants and bothers with nothing else, grabbing the vibrator’s remote from his bedside table and standing carefully.

Yeah, that feels good. He can feel it inside him, and it shifts very slightly with every step. Just knowing he has it inside him, that he could potentially have it inside him even if he were to leave the house, turns him on. He would never do it, because despite what he may fantasize about, he’s actually a very private person. The thought of doing anything voyeuristic is definitely mortifying. But in the safety of his own home, the thought of it is a thrill.

So Peter makes his way into the second and last room of his apartment — the living room-slash-kitchen. He sets the remote on the counter, and he clicks a button — the lowest setting — and starts washing the dishes.

The vibrator feels delicious inside him. He’s up to his elbows in soap and water, dishes getting scrubbed clean between his hands, and yet he feels dirty. Chores have literally never been so fun.

He turns the vibrator on and off as he goes about doing other menial tasks. Letting the pleasure build and taking it away, forcing himself to calm back down before he turns it on again, just for the thrill of it. Just to make it last longer.

It feels like nothing could turn his good mood around, save for, like, an alien invasion.

But of course, he’s Peter Parker. And just — this is his life.

“Webs!” Wade’s voice calls, and Peter’s in the living room, his DVDs recently reorganized in alphabetical order — don’t judge him — when he sees Deadpool climbing in through his bedroom window.

Immediately, he feels himself flush — because Wade’s in his apartment, and he has a vibrator up his ass, oh God. But it’s currently off. Small blessings.

“What are you doing here?” Peter sighs, as his bedroom door swings the rest the way open and Wade steps out of it.

It’s been a good few months since he revealed his identity to Deadpool. At first, it was no big deal. Deep down, Peter knows it still isn’t. But after enough time, it stopped being just, _you know my name and face and I’m at your apartment all the time,_ and it became more of, _I know your name and face and also I looked up your address because you left this at my apartment and — oh, wow, you have a Switch? Can I play? Do you have Breath of the Wild?_

So, Wade tends to stop by, every once in a while. Sometimes Peter has even woken up to Wade _in_ his apartment, sneaking through his window and covered in blood and saying, _shit, sorry, did I wake you, baby boy? You mind if I use your shower?_

“Came to see my favorite spider,” Wade says happily. He looks around. “Wow, is it spring cleaning time already? _And_ you’re not wearing a shirt? Score!”

“Just had some free time,” Peter says, feeling supremely awkward. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Had a day off, so…”

Wade hums. He wanders into the kitchen, and Peter freezes, feeling his tension rise with Wade that close to the remote. But he can’t think of a way to get him away from it without it being obvious, and he can’t think of anything more embarrassing than the idea of Wade realizing what exactly that remote is _for_.

“You want to play a video game?” Peter says, his voice coming across slightly higher pitched than usual.

“Love to,” Wade says, pulling open the fridge. As if he’s going to find anything in there. He should know better by now. “You’re gonna get your ass crushed in Mario Kart, baby boy.”

“As if,” Peter scoffs, as Wade pulls out a jar of pickles. He holds it up, squinting at them.

“Since when do you like pickles?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says. “I feel like those have been in there forever. I probably wouldn’t eat them.”

“This sounds like a pizza emergency,” Wade says. He shoves the pickles back into the fridge, pulls his phone out of some pocket on his belt, and spins around. He rests his arms on the counter, his phone up to the ear of his mask, and Peter’s heartrate is skyrocketing, because the remote’s literally _right there_ in front of his face.

“Yeah I’d like to place an order?” Wade says into the phone. “Okay, one large pizza with, like, all the toppings,” he says. And then, because God hates Peter, he picks up the little white remote, frowning at it. “Yeah, and a side of breadsticks. And a whole bunch of sauce, too, please.” He rattles off the address, which should probably be concerning, that Wade’s memorized it, but Peter’s too preoccupied being concerned about other things right now.

Wade has his credit card out, and he’s reading out the numbers on the front. He’s still holding that cursed remote, though, and it’s as he flips the card over to the back that he looks up at the TV, curious, and points the remote at it. He clicks a button, and the vibrator hums to life inside of Peter. He sucks in a breath, stiffening where he’s sitting on the floor, and debates just throwing himself out the window.

“Perfect, thank you,” Wade says, perfectly polite. “See you then.”

He hangs up the phone, tossing it carelessly onto the counter, and frowns at the TV again, clicking the same button. The vibrator turns off and Peter shifts, sure he’s blushing all over. He’s going to die. This is just — it’s gonna kill him. This is the end of the line.

“Pete, what’s this for?” Wade says, looking back down at the remote. He clicks the same button and Peter nearly gnaws his tongue off. “Is this for some new gaming console?”

“As if I could afford one,” Peter jokes. His voice sounds… wobbly. God dammit. He should’ve locked his windows. Or put a padlock on them, really, because the locks have never stopped Wade before.

He clicks another button, and it starts vibrating harder, and Peter’s going to explode. His whole body’s tense. He can feel sweat dampening his hairline. How the hell did he get himself into this stupid situation?

“It’s, uh,” Peter squeaks. “I just found it in a drawer when I was cleaning. I can’t remember what it’s for.”

“Weird,” Wade says, and he button mashes the damn thing, and Peter arches backward against the couch, biting down on his lip so hard that he draws blood. He can feel himself shaking. He’s so hard, and the vibrator’s right on his prostate, fuck.

He’s panting, and it’s with a Herculean effort that he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling toward the kitchen. “Probably shouldn’t mess with it,” Peter says, breathless. Wade, because he’s Wade, is still messing with it. It shuts off and Peter straightens up, pressing himself against the opposite side of the counter. “We’re probably messing with a neighbors lights, or something,” he says, forcing a laugh.

And then Peter holds out a hand, obviously reaching for the remote. It hangs in the air between them, palm upward, and his fingers are still twitching from the pleasure. He definitely teased himself for too long. God, how long has he been pleasuring himself with this damn toy, turning it on and off and on and off? He’s so on edge, and Wade has so much power in the palm of his hand and he doesn’t even _know_.

But he’s staring at Peter. It might not be obvious to some people, seeing as he’s wearing his mask, but Peter can tell. He can feel his gaze roving over his body, taking in the flush that’s covering his chest, his face. Following the line of his arm down to his trembling fingers, still waiting expectantly.

And then, very decisively, Wade clicks a button. Peter’s hand slams down on the counter in a fist, his other hand gripping the edge with white knuckles. His whole body’s shaking, and he doesn’t shut his eyes for fear of forgetting where he is and letting out a moan, but he can’t look at Wade, either. He’s just staring down at the counter before him, his whole body tense and sweaty and fuck fuck _fuck_.

“It wouldn’t be to another apartment,” Wade says casually. “Even if it was left here from whoever rented out this place before you, it’d be to something here. We should find out what it is.”

Peter forces himself to shrug. To relax. To stop gripping the counter like a fucking maniac.

“Batteries are probably dead,” he says helplessly.

“You never know,” Wade presses. And God, fuck, does he know what he’s doing to Peter? Has he figured it out? But that’s so obscure. Who would jump to the conclusion of someone having a vibrator shoved inside of them simply because they were acting a little weird? Simply because they’d found an object-less remote?

Fuck. It’s totally obvious, isn’t it?

“Shh!” Wade says suddenly, and Peter wasn’t saying anything anyway, but he presses his lips together automatically. He and Wade follow each other’s instructions all the time without questioning it. It’s how they’ve gotten out of so many sticky situations alive (for Peter, at least. Deadpool can’t die). But he’s used to following hurried orders that come without an explanation, so he does it anyway.

“Do you hear that?” Wade continues, walking around the counter, and Peter shakes his head, feeling himself growing hotter. Oh no. Oh, God, please no. Can he… _hear_ it? Is it loud enough? Peter can feel the vibrations, and he can certainly hear them, but he has enhanced hearing. Surely, he didn’t buy something so cheap that anyone would be able to hear it?

Fuck. He totally would’ve bought something that cheap. He’s Peter Parker, for fuck’s sake! When has he ever had money to spare?

Wade clicks another button, and the vibrations turn sporadic. The toy buzzes on and off within him, changing speeds, changing intensities, and Peter screws his eyes shut, his breathing now erratic. He can’t help it. He just — he _can’t_ come. He would die of embarrassment. He already _is_ dying of embarrassment.

“Weird,” Wade says. Peter barely hears him. “It seems the only thing this remote controls is _you_.”

Peter shakes his head, wanting to deny it, but he can’t open his mouth. If he doesn’t, nothing but moans are going to come out.

He’s still facing the counter, and he’s clutching it again, trying desperately to hold himself together.

Wade comes up behind him, and he presses himself against Peter’s back. He can feel the coolness of the leather against his back, and he shivers at their proximity, at Wade being so close to him when he’s this close to coming, when he’s this _hard_.

His chin comes down on Peter’s shoulder, his lips pressed to Peter’s ear through the mask. Peter’s wedged between him and the counter — even Wade’s arms are caging him in, his hands gripping the counter just outside of Peter’s own.

“You know what this remote controls, don’t you, Petey?” Wade whispers.

“Fuck,” Peter gasps, and he tries to move, tries to arch, but he’s trapped. He just shakes in place, the vibrations too much, too powerful.

“I think I know,” Wade says. And he moves his hand away from the counter, and then he’s placing the remote before Peter. “You can turn it off,” he says. “Unless, of course, it’s nothing.”

“I d-don’t know what it does,” Peter gasps. He’s fooling no one. He doesn’t know why he’s playing along. Doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed but also…

Liking it.

“So weird,” Wade hums. “I wonder what he does.” He leans against Peter harder, reaching for the remote again, and he clicks one of the buttons toward the top. Peter cries out, collapsing over the counter and gasping, his breath fogging up the surface before him.

“Oh, fuck!”

Wade grabs his biceps and hauls him back up, pressing Peter back against his body. He whimpers with the movement, leaning all his weight against Wade, who wraps one arm around Peter’s stomach. He drags them a step away from the counter, and now Peter’s arousal is immediately obvious. He’s only wearing sweatpants, and they’re doing a shit job of hiding anything.

“Oh, wow,” Wade murmurs. His gloved hand is running over Peter’s stomach, making his muscles jump beneath his figures. “What’s got you so turned on?”

“Nothing,” Peter gasps. “Don’t look. It’s embarrassing,” he says, except he _does_ want Wade to look. What’s wrong with him?

Wade grabs Peter’s waistband with his free hand and just — pulls it outward. They’re both looking down, and yeah — it’s humiliating. His cock is hard and pressed against his stomach, now, red at the top and leaking from the stimulation directly against his prostate.

“Fuck, baby boy,” Wade says. He just — keeps looking. Keeps holding Peter’s sweatpants like that. Peter’s fucking shaking and shivering against him, the vibration definitely beginning to become too much.

Wade inches his foot between Peter’s, and Peter bucks backward against his thigh. The movement presses the toy further into him, and like that, it could’ve been a cock — could’ve been _Wade’s_ cock.

And they’re both still just staring down at his arousal, his sweatpants held open with a single gloved fist, and that’s what does it. The sensation, the humiliation, the _everything_. Peter comes untouched — his cock just twitches and spurts against his stomach, and he cries out, throwing his head back against Wade’s shoulder. He has nothing to hold onto, and his legs feel like jelly, but Wade’s holding him up. His orgasm overwhelms him, and he’s definitely making the most embarrassing sounds, and it feels so _good_.

It feels good good good and then too much, way too much, it’s so sensitive and _fuck_. The feeling comes back to his legs and he straightens and _fuck_ , that just presses the damn thing against him even more.

“T-turn it off,” Peter gasps, still trembling, and Wade leans them both forward, reaching for the remote on the counter. Mercifully, he turns it off, and Peter collapses there, his chest heaving. “Oh my God.”

“I wanna see it,” Wade says.

“See what?” Peter says weakly, but Wade’s not playing along anymore. He grabs Peter’s sweatpants and yanks them down to his knees. Peter has .2 seconds to brace himself for the fact that Wade’s probably about to stick his fingers in him — and A) he’s not too disturbed by that idea, and B) he kind of wishes Wade would wash his gloves first — when there’s a hot, wet stripe across his entrance.

“Fuck!” Peter gasps. “Wade!”

Wade tries to respond, but his mouth is… otherwise occupied. Peter writhes against the counter, he’s way too sensitive for this, but he’s not stopping Wade, why isn’t he stopping Wade?

He grabs for the other edge of the counter and pulls himself up slightly. He’s practically laying across it, but it leaves his toes dangling above the other side, just barely brushing the floor. Wade pushes his thighs further apart, just — _burying_ his face there.

Peter’s already loose and wet from the toy, and Wade’s tongue slips in easily. Bare, scarred hands grab his ass — when did Wade take off his gloves? — and then he’s pulling back, and Peter whines at the loss.

“So fucking pretty,” Wade murmurs. His hand slides along Peter’s ass, his fingers coming to his hole, and they dig into him. They press forward, and he bumps the toy, pressing it into his sensitive prostate. Peter jerks against the counter, unable to help it, before Wade manages to get a grip on the damn thing and slowly, carefully pull it out of him.

He leans against Peter, then, his clothed crotch pressed to Peter’s bare ass, and leans over him. Peter’s face is turned to the side, and he can see it when Wade brings the toy into his line of vision, shiny from lube and no doubt warm in Wade’s hand.

“Fuck,” Wade whispers. “It’s bigger than I thought.”

“You knew it was…” Peter clears his throat. “Uhh. In there?”

Wade snorts. “Yeah, I recognized the remote. They’re a pretty popular brand.”

Peter flushes immediately, turning his face back into the counter and closing his eyes. He groans.

“You know, I never would’ve thought you had any sex toys,” Wade says conversationally, as if he didn’t just get Peter off and eat him out. As if he’s not holding something that was _just inside Peter_ in his very hand. “Definitely struck me as the prude-type. I mean, _you_? In a sex shop?”

“I ordered it,” Peter says sheepishly, and Wade laughs.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he says, and Peter sucks in a breath. He has plenty of time to protest. Wade even waits, and if he’s expecting it. But Peter doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, and he waits, and then Wade’s moving.

Peter can hear the belt buckle and the sound of leather shifting over skin and then — “Fuck!” he gasps, feeling Wade pressing against him. He drags Peter back to the edge of the counter, the balls of his feet holding him up now, and Peter props himself up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder at Wade.

“Just so you know, this is, like, every single one of my dreams come true,” Wade says, sounding way too put together.

“Wade, just — nng!” Peter can’t even remember what he was going to say, because Wade is _inside_ him. And he’s huge — way bigger than the toy — and he’s holding Peter’s hips in place as he pulls back out and fucks back in.

Peter’s bouncing against the counter as Wade fucks him, and he’s definitely imagined fucking Wade before — how can he have not? When they spend most of their time together, and when Wade is _that_ big and _that_ strong and not to mention funny and genuinely caring even though some people might not think it and—

“You okay there, Webs?” Wade says. He slows down for a second. “Your head’s flopping all around. I don’t wanna fuck you into oblivion.”

Peter looks over his shoulder again. “Take off your mask,” he pants.

He can tell Wade’s frowning. “You know I don’t mind showing you my face, baby boy, but it’s kind of a boner killer.”

“Not to me,” Peter protests, and Wade yanks off his mask. His eyes are crossed and his tongue stuck out — obviously trying to get a stupid reaction out of Peter — and Peter huffs out a laugh.

“New position,” he says. “Wanna see you.”

“Your funeral,” Wade says, but he pulls out, and Peter hops onto the counter, leaning back and hooking his legs around Wade’s waist. “Fucking sexy ass spider gonna kill me…” Wade murmurs, and then he lines himself back up, and Peter’s head hits the counter behind him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and now he’s sliding against the countertop for real, his legs and Wade’s hands dragging him back to Wade’s pelvis with every thrust. This new position has Wade hitting his prostate dead on, and he’s still so sensitive. These gross, horrible sounds keep crawling out of Peter’s throat, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to ignore them, because God, they’re that embarrassing.

“Gonna come in you,” Wade says, leaning over him. “If that’s okay.”

Peter just nods, and then Wade’s hand is on his cock, and Peter cries out, tensing around Wade.

This time, they come together. Peter feels like he’s falling apart, his body spent and trembling and just gooey-tired. Wade thrusts into him a couple more times, and Peter’s staring at his face, at the line of his mouth and the fluttering of his eyelids.

Finally, he stops, and it’s just them. They’re sweaty and panting, and Peter’s lying naked on his freshly cleaned counter.

“Wow,” Peter says. “This is not how I saw my day going.”

“Me neither,” Wade says. His hands are running over Peter, almost reverent. Up and down his sides, over his hips. His finger traces through the mess on Peter’s stomach, and Peter flushes. “You’re never here on Sundays. Don’t you usually have work?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Wait, do you usually come over when I’m not here?”

Wade shrugs. “You have my Zelda file. And I don’t want to spend all our time together playing video games.”

He reaches down and pulls Peter’s sweatpants back up. Peter was going to, like, clean himself up before he did that, but he doesn’t have the heart to protest. Not when the action itself is so sweet.

Carefully, Peter sits up and slides off the counter.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s cuddle and watch a movie.”

There’s a knock on the door. Wade grins.

“Pizza’s here!”


End file.
